


Masochism Tango

by non_canonical



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: 1950s, Blasphemy, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, M/M, PWP, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal can always find a way to entertain himself, even in a church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masochism Tango

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts).



> _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  Title stolen from Tom Lehrer.

"Come on," Cutler says.  "Let's go."

"Something wrong?" Hal asks, and he lets the priest crumple to the floor.  For once, Cutler doesn't care about the blood still trickling from the body.

"Only the fact that we're in a bloody church."  And it hurts.  It's fucking well hurt from the moment that Hal dragged him in here.  Literally dragged him in – by the collar, like a naughty child – just so that he could watch Hal kill that priest.  Cutler has no idea how Hal could stomach the stuff in the man's veins.

"You're in a hurry," Hal remarks.  Which means that he isn't.  Which means that he's considering how to entertain himself for the rest of the evening.  And whether Cutler deserves to be involved.  He's probably smiling that lazy smile of his, but Cutler keeps his gaze on the floor: even for a church, there seems to be a ridiculous number of crucifixes on display.

Hal steps closer.  There's blood smearing the immaculate shine of his shoes, and blood staining the hem of his trousers.  Cutler suspects it's his fault – he spat the vile taste out on his first mouthful – and he shivers at the prospect of what Hal might do to punish him.  But Hal does nothing, says nothing, just leaves him fidgeting on the consecrated ground, and Cutler's never been good with suspense.  Hal takes another step towards him, and Cutler's eyes are drawn upwards, up Hal's trousers to where the knife-edge crease flattens at the crotch – or would flatten, if the fabric wasn't swelling outwards.  Holy ground or not, fresh blood tends to go straight to Hal's cock.

Hal steps closer still.  Close enough to touch, to kiss – if he dared.  Close enough to feel the warmth coming off him, and Cutler wants to peel away the layers of clothes and expose the naked heat underneath.  Fresh blood seems to go straight to Cutler's cock, as well.  Hal's finger presses against the knot of Cutler's tie, then slides down the length of silk, and the heat seems to leap the gap between them and settle in Cutler's flesh.  Then Hal is pushing him backwards, and he stumbles over something soft – shit, it's the priest – and he thuds into the confessional box.  Into the priest's chair, and there's a crucifix on the lattice screen, no more than a foot from his face, but Hal's hand is on his chest.

"What, here?" Cutler gasps.

"Is there somewhere else you'd rather be?"

And yes, there is, actually: anywhere but here, with the sight of that cross burning worse than a lighted cigarette, with the piety bitter in the air, scouring Cutler's lungs, and he can't just sit there.  The weight against his breastbone eases, and he can move, could stand and walk away, but Hal's other hand is wandering lower, and –

"Fuck."  Cutler bites his lip.  His eyes squeeze shut against the pleasure and the pain: the warm pressure of Hal's palm, the burn of the crucifix, like searing sun against his skin.  Hal's fingers find him through the fine wool of his trousers, loose enough to tease, hard enough to stir him into life, but it's not enough.  Cutler shifts and pushes, hunting for that extra pressure, friction, grip – and Hal takes his hand away.  Cutler's eyes snap open, and there's the crucifix again, igniting pain deep in his heart, his lungs, his gut, and it's worse than the hunger, and he can't bear it –

"Keep your eyes on me," Hal tells him.  There's a smile warming Hal's face, and it looks like it might even be real, and – god help him – Cutler can't resist the thought that he's the one who put it there.

Pain jars through him, into the marrow of his bones and the roots of his teeth, but Cutler knows pain.  He's been through worse, and when Hal's fingers work their way down the buttons of his fly – popping them open one by one – he can feel each little pressure and release against the swelling hardness of his cock.  Hal's hand closes around him and pulls him free, and he arches up into it.  Then Hal is sinking to his knees, and he's actually kneeling on the priest – and Hal is leaning over and dipping his head towards Cutler's groin, and Cutler couldn't care less if he'd just killed the fucking Pope.

Hal breathes, hot and moist, against him, and Cutler swears that he can feel the blood pulsing in every vein, every cell.  He waits, waits for the soft brush of lips, the wet muscle of Hal's tongue.  Maybe even teeth, and Cutler freezes at the thought, just in case Hal slips.

But Hal sits back on his haunches.  "No one's ever done this for you, have they?"

Hal's talking.  He actually wants to talk at a time like this, with the need throbbing impatiently in every inch of Cutler's erection.  It's a game – of course it is: everything's a game to Hal – and it won't move forwards until he makes a move.  Cutler shakes his head.

"I didn't catch that."

Cutler squirms.  He can feel the moisture at his temples, in the hollow of his back, trickling down his heated skin – and if God doesn't strike him down in the next five minutes, then he might just spontaneously combust from sexual frustration.

"No."  Cutler swallows heavily, waits for his voice to scratch its way out of his dry, constricted throat.  "It's not the sort of thing you ask a nice girl to do."

Hal smiles.  "Luckily for you, I'm not nice."

And then his mouth is on Cutler, hot and wet, and clamped on tight, like he's sucking on an artery.  Cutler's hips jerk and thrust – once, twice – and he's deep, so deep, and surely that can't even be possible.  But Hal's not choking, not pulling back, and the pressure on his cock increases.  Cutler's hands clench around empty air, afraid to bury themselves in the neatness of Hal's hair, and he clutches the arms of the chair so hard there are going to be finger marks in the wood.

Cutler wants to close his eyes.  Just listen to the gorgeous, filthy noises – the wet suction, the panting that tells him he's the only one who's actually breathing – to revel in the feel of that slick slide, the grip and tug of those lips.  But he needs to watch, because that's his cock, disappearing into Hal's mouth.  His cock, glistening with Hal's saliva, up and down, in and out.  It's Hal fucking Yorke doing this – doing this for him, and Cutler wants it to go on forever, but he can't hold on much longer.  Can feel the sweet ache building in his gut, in his balls.  Then Hal does _something_ with his tongue – something amazing, something spectacular – and Hal's fingers are circling his cock and his hips start thrusting, and Cutler comes with a silent yell.

Cutler's floating – limp and sated, and the world's a warm and fuzzy place right now.  That might possibly have been the best orgasm of his life, although he'd be happy to be proven wrong at some point in the future; if Hal wanted to prove him wrong.  Hal's already on his feet.  There's something glistening at the corner of his mouth, and his tongue slips out, leisurely and thorough, to clean it up.  The glow is fizzling out, and there's a crucifix glaring right into Cutler's face, and even the wood from the confessional is starting to burn him.  And, now that he thinks about it, he's in fucking pain.

"Come on," Cutler says.  He straightens his wobbly legs and he fumbles with his trousers.  "Let's go."

"Not so fast," Hal says, and Cutler's forgotten the very first rule: the game isn't over until Hal gets what he wants.  Cutler lets his trousers drop.  Then there's a very neglected erection twitching against Cutler's hip, and a little glass vial dangling from Hal's fingers.  "Holy oil," Hal tells him.  "And I've got a nasty feeling it's going to sting."

 


End file.
